RICH AND POOR.—Joseph Barber.

"Men are born equal;" Jefferson, the Sage, Upon our history's initial page, Inscribed that dictum; But we who live in later times amend The "declaration" of our patriot friend With a postscriptum. We deem, like him, swart Labor's son and heir, And wealth's soft bantling, of one earthenware, But mark the sequel: One's meanly clothed in threadbare suit forlorn, The other flaunts in velvet, lace, and lawn; Are they then equal? Five thousand children in New York, each year, Gasp for bare life, in cellars damp and drear, 'Neath the street level. Deprived of sunshine, chill'd with vapor-blights, Say what are their "inalienable rights," Social and civil? The right to starve, the right to beg, to float Among the city's scum—perchance to vote Some day as "freemen." Ah! yes, the polls their sovereignty declare, Not so—in sordid chains they're oft led there By Faction's Demon. "The rich and poor are equal," says the State, But the strong laws of destiny and fate, O'erride its polity. Both have a right to seek for "happiness;" But, with such different chances of success, Where's the equality? Here wealth like a Colossus doth bestride With legs of gold, the sorrow-troubled tide Of Want and Squallor. Nay, more, Law, Justice, oft becomes the tool Of that bright tyrant, callous, calm, and cool, Almighty Dollar! "All men are equal," where? Why, in their dust, Your worm cares little for your "upper crust!" (What impropriety!) And heaven receives alike all spirits pure, On equal terms, and heaven is therefore sure Of good society.